The Worst Journey in the World (84 page)

A breeze suddenly came away from S.S.E., force 4 to 6 at 11 A.M. on
February 22, and they hoisted the sail on the sledge they had just picked
up. They immediately lost the tracks they were following, and failed to
find the cairns and camp remains which they should have picked up if they
had been on the right course, which was difficult here owing to the thick
weather we had on the outward march. Bowers was sure they were too near
the land and they steered out, but still failed to pick up the line on
which their depôts and their lives depended. Scott was convinced they
were outside, not inside the line. The next morning Bowers took a round
of angles, and they came to the conclusion, on slender evidence, that
they were still too near the land. They had an unhappy march still off
the tracks, "but just as we decided to lunch, Bowers' wonderful sharp
eyes detected an old double lunch cairn, the theodolite telescope
confirmed it, and our spirits rose accordingly."
^[324]
Then Wilson had
another "bad attack of snow-glare: could hardly keep a chink of eye open
in goggles to see the course. Fat pony hoosh."
^[325]
This day they reached
the Lower Barrier Depôt.

They were in evil case, but they would have been all right, these men, if
the cold had not come down upon them, a bolt quite literally from the
blue of a clear sky: unexpected, unforetold and fatal. The cold itself
was not so tremendous until you realize that they had been out four
months, that they had fought their way up the biggest glacier in the
world in feet of soft snow, that they had spent seven weeks under plateau
conditions of rarefied air, big winds and low temperatures, and they had
watched one of their companions die—not in a bed, in a hospital or
ambulance, nor suddenly, but slowly, night by night and day by day, with
his hands frost-bitten and his brain going, until they must have
wondered, each man in his heart, whether in such case a human being could
be left to die, that four men might live. He died a natural death and
they went out on to the Barrier.

Given such conditions as were expected, and the conditions for which
preparation had been made, they would have come home alive and well. Some
men say the weather was abnormal: there is some evidence that it was. The
fact remains that the temperature dropped into the minus thirties by day
and the minus forties by night. The fact also remains that there was a
great lack of southerly winds, and in consequence the air near the
surface was not being mixed: excessive radiation took place, and a layer
of cold air formed near the ground. Crystals also formed on the surface
of the snow and the wind was not enough to sweep them away. As the
temperature dropped so the surface for the runners of the sledges became
worse, as I explained elsewhere.
^[326]
They were pulling as it were
through sand.

In the face of the difficulties which beset them their marches were
magnificent: 11½ miles on February 25 and again on the following day:
12.2 miles on February 27, and 11½ miles again on February 28 and 29. If
they could have kept this up they would have come through without a
doubt. But I think it was about now that they suspected, and then were
sure, that they could not pull through. Scott's diary, written at lunch,
March 2, is as follows:

"Misfortunes rarely come singly. We marched to the [Middle Barrier] depôt
fairly easily yesterday afternoon, and since that have suffered three
distinct blows which have placed us in a bad position. First, we found a
shortage of oil; with most rigid economy it can scarce carry us to the
next depôt on this surface [71 miles away]. Second, Titus Oates disclosed
his feet, the toes showing very bad indeed, evidently bitten by the late
temperatures. The third blow came in the night, when the wind, which we
had hailed with some joy, brought dark overcast weather. It fell below
-40° in the night, and this morning it took 1½ hours to get our foot-gear
on, but we got away before eight. We lost cairn and tracks together and
made as steady as we could N. by W., but have seen nothing. Worse was to
come—the surface is simply awful. In spite of strong wind and full sail
we have only done 5½ miles. We are in a
very
queer street, since there
is no doubt we cannot do the extra marches and feel the cold
horribly."
^[327]

They did nearly ten miles that day, but on March 3 they had a terrible
time. "God help us," wrote Scott, "we can't keep up this pulling, that is
certain. Amongst ourselves we are unendingly cheerful, but what each man
feels in his heart I can only guess. Putting on foot-gear in the morning
is getting slower and slower, therefore every day more dangerous."

The following extracts are taken from Scott's diary.

"
March 4. Lunch.
We are in a very tight place indeed, but none of us
despondent
yet
, or at least we preserve every semblance of good cheer,
but one's heart sinks as the sledge stops dead at some sastrugi behind
which the surface sand lies thickly heaped. For the moment the
temperature is in the -20°—an improvement which makes us much more
comfortable, but a colder snap is bound to come again soon. I fear that
Oates at least will weather such an event very poorly. Providence to our
aid! We can expect little from man now except the possibility of extra
food at the next depôt. It will be real bad if we get there and find the
same shortage of oil. Shall we get there? Such a short distance it would
have appeared to us on the summit! I don't know what I should do if
Wilson and Bowers weren't so determinedly cheerful over things."

"
Monday, March 5. Lunch.
Regret to say going from bad to worse. We got
a slant of wind yesterday afternoon, and going on 5 hours we converted
our wretched morning run of 3½ miles into something over 9. We went to
bed on a cup of cocoa and pemmican solid with the chill off.... The
result is telling on all, but mainly on Oates, whose feet are in a
wretched condition. One swelled up tremendously last night and he is very
lame this morning. We started march on tea and pemmican as last night—we
pretend to prefer the pemmican this way. Marched for 5 hours this
morning over a slightly better surface covered with high moundy sastrugi.
Sledge capsized twice; we pulled on foot, covering about 5½ miles. We are
two pony marches and 4 miles about from our depôt. Our fuel dreadfully
low and the poor Soldier nearly done. It is pathetic enough because we
can do nothing for him; more hot food might do a little, but only a
little, I fear. We none of us expected these terribly low temperatures,
and of the rest of us, Wilson is feeling them most; mainly, I fear, from
his self-sacrificing devotion in doctoring Oates' feet. We cannot help
each other, each has enough to do to take care of himself. We get cold on
the march when the trudging is heavy, and the wind pierces our worn
garments. The others, all of them, are unendingly cheerful when in the
tent. We mean to see the game through with a proper spirit, but it's
tough work to be pulling harder than we ever pulled in our lives for long
hours, and to feel that the progress is so slow. One can only say 'God
help us!' and plod on our weary way, cold and very miserable, though
outwardly cheerful. We talk of all sorts of subjects in the tent, not
much of food now, since we decided to take the risk of running a full
ration. We simply couldn't go hungry at this time."

"
Tuesday, March 6. Lunch.
We did a little better with help of wind
yesterday afternoon, finishing 9½ miles for the day, and 27 miles from
depôt. But this morning things have been awful. It was warm in the night
and for the first time during the journey I overslept myself by more than
an hour; then we were slow with foot-gear; then, pulling with all our
might (for our lives) we could scarcely advance at rate of a mile an
hour; then it grew thick and three times we had to get out of harness to
search for tracks. The result is something less than 3½ miles for the
forenoon. The sun is shining now and the wind gone. Poor Oates is unable
to pull, sits on the sledge when we are track-searching—he is
wonderfully plucky, as his feet must be giving him great pain. He makes
no complaint, but his spirits only come up in spurts now, and he grows
more silent in the tent. We are making a spirit lamp to try and replace
the primus when our oil is exhausted..."

"
Wednesday, March 7.
A little worse, I fear. One of Oates' feet
very
bad this morning; he is wonderfully brave. We still talk of what we will
do together at home.

"We only made 6½ miles yesterday. This morning in 4½ hours we did just
over 4 miles. We are 16 from our depôt. If we only find the correct
proportion of food there and this surface continues, we may get to the
next depôt
(Mt. Hooper, 72 miles farther)
but not to One Ton Camp. We
hope against hope that the dogs have been to Mt. Hooper; then we might
pull through. If there is a shortage of oil again we can have little
hope. One feels that for poor Oates the crisis is near, but none of us
are improving, though we are wonderfully fit considering the really
excessive work we are doing. We are only kept going by good food. No wind
this morning till a chill northerly air came ahead. Sun bright and cairns
showing up well. I should like to keep the track to the end."

"
Thursday, March 8. Lunch.
Worse and worse in morning; poor Oates' left
foot can never last out, and time over foot-gear something awful. Have to
wait in night foot-gear for nearly an hour before I start changing, and
then am generally first to be ready. Wilson's feet giving trouble now,
but this mainly because he gives so much help to others. We did 4½ miles
this morning and are now 8½ miles from the depôt—a ridiculously small
distance to feel in difficulties, yet on this surface we know we cannot
equal half our old marches, and that for that effort we expend nearly
double the energy. The great question is: What shall we find at the
depôt? If the dogs have visited it we may get along a good distance, but
if there is another short allowance of fuel, God help us indeed. We are
in a very bad way, I fear, in any case."

"
Saturday, March 10.
Things steadily downhill. Oates' foot worse. He
has rare pluck and must know that he can never get through. He asked
Wilson if he had a chance this morning, and of course Bill had to say he
didn't know. In point of fact he has none. Apart from him, if he went
under now, I doubt whether we could get through. With great care we might
have a dog's chance, but no more. The weather conditions are awful, and
our gear gets steadily more icy and difficult to manage....

"Yesterday we marched up the depôt, Mt. Hooper. Cold comfort. Shortage on
our allowance all round. I don't know that any one is to blame. The dogs
which would have been our salvation have evidently failed. Meares had a
bad trip home I suppose.

"This morning it was calm when we breakfasted, but the wind came from the
W.N.W. as we broke camp. It rapidly grew in strength. After travelling
for half an hour I saw that none of us could go on facing such
conditions. We were forced to camp and are spending the rest of the day
in a comfortless blizzard camp, wind quite foul."

"
Sunday, March 11.
Titus Oates is very near the end, one feels. What we
or he will do, God only knows. We discussed the matter after breakfast;
he is a brave fine fellow and understands the situation, but he
practically asked for advice. Nothing could be said but to urge him to
march as long as he could. One satisfactory result to the discussion: I
practically ordered Wilson to hand over the means of ending our troubles
to us, so that any one of us may know how to do so. Wilson had no choice
between doing so and our ransacking the medicine case. We have 30 opium
tabloids apiece and he is left with a tube of morphine. So far the
tragical side of our story.

"The sky completely overcast when we started this morning. We could see
nothing, lost the tracks, and doubtless have been swaying a good deal
since—3.1 miles for the forenoon—terribly heavy dragging—expected it.
Know that 6 miles is about the limit of our endurance now, if we get no
help from wind or surfaces. We have 7 days' food and should be about 55
miles from One Ton Camp to-night, 6x7 = 42, leaving us 13 miles short of
our distance, even if things get no worse. Meanwhile the season rapidly
advances."

"
Monday, March 12.
We did 6.9 miles yesterday, under our necessary
average. Things are left much the same, Oates not pulling much, and now
with hands as well as feet pretty well useless. We did 4 miles this
morning in 4 hours 20 min.—we may hope for 3 this afternoon 7 x 6 = 42.
We shall be 47 miles from the depôt. I doubt if we can possibly do it.
The surface remains awful, the cold intense, and our physical condition
running down. God help us! Not a breath of favourable wind for more than
a week, and apparently liable to head winds at any moment."

"
Wednesday, March 14.
No doubt about the going downhill, but everything
going wrong for us. Yesterday we woke to a strong northerly wind with
temp. -37°. Couldn't face it, so remained in camp till 2, then did 5¼
miles. Wanted to march later, but party feeling the cold badly as the
breeze (N.) never took off entirely, and as the sun sank the temp. fell.
Long time getting supper in dark.

"This morning started with southerly breeze, set sail and passed another
cairn at good speed; half-way, however, the wind shifted to W. by S. or
W.S.W., blew through our wind-clothes and into our mitts. Poor Wilson
horribly cold, could
(not)
get off ski for some time. Bowers and I
practically made camp, and when we got into the tent at last we were all
deadly cold. Then temp. now mid-day down -43° and the wind strong. We
must
go on, but now the making of every camp must be more difficult and
dangerous. It must be near the end, but a pretty merciful end. Poor Oates
got it again in the foot. I shudder to think what it will be like
to-morrow. It is only with greatest pains rest of us keep off
frost-bites. No idea there could be temperatures like this at this time
of year with such winds. Truly awful outside the tent. Must fight it out
to the last biscuit, but can't reduce rations."